Alone This Christmas
by MidnightSchemer13
Summary: Alone. "Insane." A meaningless, empty celebration. Naminé spends her Christmas in Castle Oblivion, her only company her thoughts, drawings, and the corpses.  -Possibly disturbing material inside- A psychological story, slight Marlumine. T plus for safety?


_The author offers no opinion, thoughts, or explanation on this story._

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><p><em>They call me insane. I sit and draw, each day. I see nothing wrong with that; but then again, <em>I_ wouldn't. I'm insane. Or so they say._

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><p>It's quiet in the Castle. There's no one here, except me.<p>

There's no one drawing, except me.

There's nobody feeling sad, except me.

There's nothing breathing, except me.

But do I breathe? Do I feel the pain of taking in each sigh of air, so unnoticeable to those who are used to it? Do I open my lungs to each gulp of fresh oxygen, to sustain myself?

No. I don't think so, at least.

I'm not dead, but I don't breathe. I guess I'm not alive, either. So what's in between? I'm certainly not a Heartless; but I'm not a Nobody either. Not a real one.

Emotions are real to me. I can feel. This I know.

My mouth twitches into what resembles a smile (since I don't know how to smile anymore, never really did) as I finish a drawing: a view of the sunset on the island the heroes came from. The ocean is clear, a deep, deep blue, tinged with the orange and red from the sun. The paopu fruit tree stands in its strange, bent shape, but there is no one sitting on the tree.

No one has sat on the tree for a very long time.

Perhaps a year.

Maybe two.

I set down my pencil, red as a poisoned apple, as I pick up a pen and flip the page in my sketchbook. It's my twelfth one since I came here. I draw every single day.

I have to.

I'm cursed to draw.

If I don't...

The voices come back. They whisper, they tickle, and never in a good way. I spend days asleep, trapped in nightmares of my own creation, no less. Or at least, that's what they say. I don't think I'd imagine frightening monsters and tearing claws, ripping my skin to find my non-existent heart of my own accord, but who knows what memories sleep, deep inside of me? I only want the voices, the dreams, to stop.

So I draw. No matter what.

I sketch the outlines of a human body. A handsome face, an elegant neck, shoulders, arms. I leave the hands undrawn as of yet. I trace the chest, then the middle, taking care to curve only slightly for this man's hips. He stands tall, with strong legs now, but with toeless feet. Now my pen dances across the paper to sketch him clothes: a black robe, and boots for his feet. The hood is down; what should be pink hair cascades down to his shoulders. Bangs hang just above his black eyes, when they should be blue.

Marluxia.

The Graceful Assassin. Lord of Castle Oblivion. The dearly departed. His colourless hair (it should be pink, but it's a drawing in pen. I must not colour it) ends in waves, tips twirling off into small wisps.

He frightens me. Perhaps even more than the dreams. Perhaps less. All I know is that his blade is sharp, and his grip is strong. His words are cold, flowery. The insults he use hurt; they are nothing less than the truth, only twisted for his own ends.

Though, I cannot help but think of his smile. I've only ever seen it once, and I wish I could have seen it under better circumstances, and not when he was stabbing Axel through the chest with Graceful Dahlia. It softened his face, made it even more beautiful. The beauty present was cold without it.

I love his smile, but I never see it.

I know I'll never see it again.

I decide to draw it. My picture looks just a bit brighter, now. It's a small smile, but good things come in small doses. I finish the sketch, encasing his hands in the shaded-in black gloves last, glossing over how realistic it looks, and how unsurprising it would be if he walked off of the page.

My memory, what I have left of it, is very good.

I remember every word, every taunt, every movement.

Every caress.

I shiver at the memory of Marluxia's touch.

It's cold in here.

White and empty, the Castle is cold.

Old, cold, and silent.

I turn the page and, this time, picking up a double sided pencil with lead of green and yellow, begin drawing his accomplice. His partner in crime, in treason, and death.

Larxene.

I almost giggle as I think of her hair resembling a Shadow's head; but Shadows, dangerous as they are, are cute. Larxene is very far from cute. (_She's twice as dangerous._)

Her voice is cold, like Marluxia's; it's higher, sarcastic, and, when she wants it to be, sickeningly sweet. She finds it good fun to torture her victims before killing them, but she's never killed me. I think it's only because Marluxia told her not to. She'd probably love to.

I think back to when she was still alive. It was hard to read her beautiful face, cold and doll-like (but who am I to talk? I'm only almost a doll myself); I still can't tell who she liked with her non-love, Marluxia or Axel. Certainly Marluxia used her as his stepping-stone, but he might have liked her with his shadows of emotions.

Kind of like the way I almost liked him. (_It's easy to forget physical pain._)

But I saw how Axel looked at her. It frightened me, a little.

Maybe more than a little.

It was a bit like how Larxene looked before she was about to "have fun" with someone.

Torture.

I shudder, suddenly thinking of Larxene's knives. They were colder than ice, sharper than steel. I know not what material the Nobodies' weapons were made of... but they weren't unenchanted.

Magical.

My mind wanders over to my memory of her death. Her glassy eyes, emerald and round, stared at me unseeingly. It was unnerving to Sora, but once he was gone... I went back to her body; and as I sat down and looked at her, I laughed.

A hollow, merciless sound. Emotionless.

Empty.

Empty and white, like my Castle.

_((It's not me. Not Naminé. _

_But it's who I've become._

_Almost a doll.))_

I captured her body perfectly in one of my drawings.

Perfectly preserved.

Always and forever.

I mutilated her body with the knives she always wielded. I would giggle, almost, at the sight of her body.

Bloody.

Torn up.

Empty.

I enjoyed drawing it.

A magical feeling. 

I finish my newest picture of Larxene.

I close the book, put down my pencil, pull up my knees, and fall asleep.

I sit there until the morning.

-x-

I've just realized.

It's Christmas Eve.

December 24th.

The day before Christmas.

I shrug, though. It doesn't mean anything. It won't change anything.

It's just... there.

Today.

Only Christmas Day and my birthday (_Creation-day, heart-loss-day, death-day?_) will change my routine, my normal schedule, my part in this play.

All the world's a stage, and my story is only a performance, and myself, an actress.

I don't live a life.

I live the part given to me, and I perform it well. 

My body is stiff from my position, just like every morning.

I unclasp my hands from around my knees, just like every morning.

I swing my legs down, yawn, and stretch in my white chair. Just like every morning.

I haven't eaten in months. I have no need to.

I'm not about to start today.

Maybe tomorrow, but not today (but I tell myself that every day. It never happens).

Potions sustain me fine.

I stand up, my thighs protesting at the sudden movement, and I stumble across the room, crossing the white, polished, marble floor, and reach the door.

I open it, and it rumbles softly, silently almost.

Crossing the white hallway, I enter Larxene's room.

The windows are so high up on the walls because Xemnas, their Superior, liked the design.

So sayest Axel.

It's pointless––it's only ever night outside.

Or so I've been told. The light here resembles sunlight, but it's never warm.

I've never been outside.

I've never been warm.

Or at least, since Sora murdered Marluxia.

It's murder, isn't it?

Premeditated, deliberate.

What's worse is that it was for _me_.

I'll never feel his warmth again.

I'll never feel fear caused by him, either.

His corpse is so silent, so still.

But if he moved... it'd be frightening.

But not so frightening as the thought of never being warm again. So, I don't think about that.

I mindlessly repeat each day, over and over again, and don't think about that.

The memory of his warm hands, warm body is enough.

It's strange, though. He had no heart or empty, hollow heartbeat, but he still had blood to shed; still had warmth to give, warmth so lacking in his speech.

I finish washing up, using the shower in Larxene's room. The water here doesn't feel like the water Sora knows, Sora's used to. It's... _softer_, like a shadow, or a memory of water. It's barely lukewarm, and the splashes are silent.

I don't understand why I wash up every morning. Nothing I do during the entire day dirties me or stains me. My dress is clean and white; my skin, perfectly porcelain.

There is no soap; no need for soap exists. I step out of the shower, the water quickly slipping down and drying off on my bare body, and I wrap myself up in a white towel, sitting on the rack.

Everything's white.

Maybe I'll stab myself and stain the towel red, just for a change of colour.

There is no steam fogging the mirror, and so I look at myself, my reflection, blankly.

I wonder if we're the same person. I wonder if she has a soul.

Physically, we're perfectly alike. I know how mirrors work.

But I can't help but wonder if there's another world on the other side, where everything's opposite.

A live Marluxia.

A cruel Sora.

A heartful and warm Larxene.

It'd be interesting to visit.

I'd bet Éniman (her name'd be the mirror of mine, wouldn't it?) is a happier person than me. I'm not unhappy, though. I just... exist. A shadow of someone else. A special Nobody.

The witch of memories.

A memory witch.

Already I'm thinking deeply of what I really am, and it's not yet even eight o'clock.

-x-

The corpses of Marluxia, Larxene, and the bodies of Sora and Riku, poor, poor Riku, lay on various floors of the Castle, my Castle, sprawled face down. Their red blood stains the white, the pure, clean white; white that is oh so empty. Like me.

I'm Queen of Castle Oblivion, now. My subjects obey my every command, so long as it's "Don't move," or "Shut up," or something along those lines.

They're only empty husks, after all.

The floors have shifted, somehow, so now my room, on the thirteenth floor, is bigger than before, and still empty. Marluxia's body is on the twelfth, Sora's on the eleventh, Larxene's on the tenth, and Riku's on the ninth.

I have no idea of what lie in the basements.

Maybe more corpses.

-x-

I visit his corpse again. Marluxia's.

He's so still. He could be sleeping, if he had ever slept when "alive".

He could be sleeping, if not for the trickle of blood that had escaped the corner of his mouth. Maybe if I ignored his sprawled arms, his twisted legs, and slashes from Sora, he could be sleeping.

I think I'll pretend he is.

Blood's easy to ignore, once you're used to it.

Marluxia, how are you today?

I listen, and pretend he treats me as his equal as he replies. _I'm very well today, Naminé, thank you. And how about you? How are you today? _

I think about my answer for a moment. How _am _I, today?

I'm okay, thank you. How was your morning?

What's it like being gone?

Are you still warm, even in the Darkness?

Did it hurt, dying? _No, he's not dead, just sleeping. He couldn't still have perfectly soft pink hair, still in its waved hairstyle, if he were dead. He would mind having his right cheek to the cold, marble floor. _

Have you finally found your heart?

Do you miss me?

He remains silent as I ask each answer; he gives me no question.

He _should _give me no question: I'm Queen of Castle Oblivion.

Answer me, Marluxia.

"I've overthrown you."

-x-

I sit on my chair, back in my room, and draw again.

Beautiful lines form as my countless coloured pencils dance and sweep across the page, every colour imaginable. Brilliant and dull, light and dark, metallic and matte, soft and bold.

I have power when I draw.

I am powerful.

I am in control.

I can escape.

When I draw, I feel as there is no one who can stop me. My thoughts, my ideas, my dreams transfer from my mind to my hand to my medium, and no one can stop me. Or at least, since the deaths of everyone.

I sit here and draw.

Every day.

It's the closest to "fun" I can get. I can concentrate only on my art, and the world will just pass me by.

I'm content to ignore and be ignored.

There's no one else here.

I pass away the morning hours from nine to twelve, drawing, drawing, drawing.

I have no memories to manipulate.

I have no one to listen to. _(The voices are pleased with my drawings today)_

Nothing different to do. _(The dark nightmares tonight will be kept at bay) _

But I don't mind. It's Christmas Eve, and tomorrow will be a different day.

Christmas day.

I'll probably eat something then.

I smile as I finish a scene.

Many people, smiling, laughing, hugging each other.

Friends.

The drawing reminds me of my lack of such a thing.

I'm lonely.

Oh so lonely.

Lonely,

Alone,

Cold,

Frightened,

Numb.

Friendless.

But able to draw, and able to feel power.

Faint power, locked away.

I have no memories to manipulate.

I draw anyway.

-x-

Twisted, cruel.

All personality traits swept away in death.

I visit Larxene's body after noon, for no particular reason at all.

It's the same as when I left it.

One thing I like about the Castle––_my _Castle––is that even when you die, nothing eats you.

No maggots.

No worms.

No spiders spinning webs.

The bodies don't decompose. The Heartless monsters may vanish into Darkness, but the bodies don't decompose.

I think I'd go crazy if they did.

Then I'd _truly _be alone.

I sit down, cross-legged, to the right of Larxene. _Her _right, anyway.

"Glassy, glassy eyes stare at me so bright..."

My voice is soft. Barely a whisper. A murmur. I have no need for it; I only ever talk to myself and the corpses.

I sometimes pretend she's an older sister of mine. I pretend she's nice and kind, someone who would hold me, and comfort me, and maybe sing a lullaby. Maybe she'd draw with me.

Maybe she'd love me.

I don't know love. I know obsession. I've seen how it drives people, to both their goals and to their defeats; deaths, even. I shudder, and push the matter from my mind.

Right now, Larxene's just another body. No different from the others. Just... there.

I curl up next to her form, and slip back into my daydream. I wrap her arms around me.

I've memorized how they were splayed; it's alright, I can return them later.

But for now, she'll be my older sister, and she'll hold me, and I'll pretend that I'm warm.

-x-

I slept an hour, next to Larxene.

I don't know why.

Today is Christmas Eve.

It should be a normal day.

I return upstairs, back to my chair, and resume drawing.

_Hello, chair. _

_You've always been there for me. Thank you for keeping me company._

_I think I'll name you... something. _

_I can't think of anything yet. I'll tell you when I do._

_You should have a name. You keep me company, after all._

I ignore my thoughts, and draw the Castle from outside, or how I imagine it.

It's from a fairy tale, white, shining...

Immersed in Darkness, but not quite drowned.

Kingdom Hearts shines brightly above it, the only light in the world.

Sunlight, when it passes through the windows, but otherwise...

I wonder if Marluxia's heart is the one that makes it shine so brightly.

It's not Sora's.

Sora's heart belongs to _her_. Not me.

Never me. But _her_.

Memories return to haunt me as I sit there, alone.

By my self.

I think of the horrible things I've done, I've seen.

What I've heard.

I treasure those moments. The pleasant voices can drown out the frightening ones for a few moments.

I think back for a moment, on what Vexen once said, about the Replica program. Maybe I could visit the basements, and make my own Replica.

Maybe I'll find food.

Maybe I'll find more corpses.

Maybe I'll just stay here.

I don't want to run into Riku.

I still don't know which one he is. I don't know what to apologize for; I'd hate to say sorry to someone who didn't deserve it, or warrant it. I think it's the Replica.

But I'm not sure.

I indulge in my addiction, my obsession: I draw, and draw, and draw... when my pencil snaps. I sigh and close the book, get off the chair again, and walk across the room.

There's an entire closet, a storeroom to and for me, filled with notebooks to draw on. Loose papers are clipped together. Colouring pencils, pens, crayons, paints, brushes, packaged together in separate boxes are stacked next to the drawing pads. A pencil sharpener sits on a shelf. I can just reach it, if I stand on my chair.

I wonder if I'll grow.

I wonder what I'll do when I run out of paper. Draw on the walls suppose.

Venture outside, maybe.

I wonder if the voices will leave if I go outside. Maybe they're tied to the Castle.

...

It's a thought.

I grab a new pencil, sharpen it cleanly (the shavings always disappear. I never know why), and head back.

I pass the crystal ball as I walk away. It catches my reflection. I look funny.

I forget about drawing for the moment, and sit down to stare at the orb. I flex my fingers. They were becoming a bit red.

Inflamed.

If they grow long enough, I could play piano beautifully.

Make music, and not draw. A new form of art.

I'd like to try.

I'll never be able to.

So I stare into the glass ball.

Smoke fogs the glass from inside, white and soft, and I begin seeing images. Images from my mind, from Sora's mind. Memories.

I see replays of old battles, old worlds that Sora visited.

There's a secret passageway that I know that allows me to bypass the worlds. Portals.

Corridors of Darkness.

I hate using them, but I never want to visit the worlds. I'm afraid I'll get lost, trapped.

With Sora gone, I'm not even sure the cards will still work.

I don't want to risk it.

Maybe I'll draw cards for myself, and try to use those.

Maybe––

I see a new image in the fog. A young boy, with blond hair fairer than mine, of flossen gold, sitting on a white chair.

Like me.

Sleeping in a white throne.

Unlike me.

I peer in curiously. I've never seen this image before. Never even imagined it. I've never seen anyone like him, but he feels so familiar.

Yet I know there is no memory of him within me, locked away or not.

He reminds me of Sora.

He looks alive.

I decide to explore today.

-x-

I think I know know what Axel was searching so desperately for; though, I don't know the reason. For tea-time, I exit the room and wander around, searching for passageways, secret and known. Maybe I've missed it, after being so used to my Castle's layout.

_Aha_.

I find a new chamber. It's cleverly hidden, a concealed door, and I open it tentatively, with a faint shadow of excitement in my mind. The room is white, and large. I can sense the powerful magic sealed inside; maybe, if I reach my hand out, I can twist the threads of enchantment in the air, and weave something from it.

I resist. It would probably be stained with Darkness.

I stop gazing around the room and turn my attention to the blond boy sitting, sleeping on his white throne.

He is someone I do not know, but I can _feel_ his strong connection to Sora. Maybe I can manipulate _his _memories, if he ever wakes up.

He just sits there, sleeping.

But he's not dead.

I look at him for a long while, studying his soft face, his golden spiked hair, his limp body. I wonder what kind of eyes he has, but I dare not open them. Yet, without seeing them, I can guess what type of person he'd be. He'd make a good friend. He'd keep me company. I almost smile. I wouldn't ever be lonely again.

He looks like a nice person, the kind of person who would never hurt me.

I've only known of him for less than an hour, and already I like him.

Gently, I poke him. His arm has no heat. It has no cold; no temperature at all.

Was that possible? He remains asleep and ignores me. I sigh and roll my eyes, and take both of his wrists in my hands. Pulling, I drag him out of the throne.

He's so light.

It's a bit unnerving. He could be a doll, fragile and virtually weightless...

Like me.

With a little bit of difficulty, I pick him up, and gently carry him over to the door. I want to take care of him. I want to keep him. He'll be my friend.

Only mine.

But as we approach the door, the pull is stronger, and there's an invisible barrier of... _solid air_, it could only be, blocking our way. My way.

All ways are my way. All ways are the Queen's way.

Only this door won't let me through.

I sigh, and close my eyes, meditating for a moment, feeling the thick aura of magic.

This room is... _breathing_.

It won't let me take him out. It refuses to. It was given an order to protect the boy, and protect him it would.

I place him gently back onto the chair.

I give him a kiss on the cheek, so that maybe he'd remember me, and take out a crumpled scrap of paper and a stub of a pencil.

I draw on the spare paper a map and path from my room to this one, so that I won't ever lose where it is.

I want to return here.

I want to see him again. I have to.

Now I have hope that I won't be alone, forever. I can wait just a little while longer. He probably won't sleep as long as Sora.

I leave the room. I need to draw.

The voices are beginning to come back.

-x-

The room is gone, and the boy with it.

Or, not gone, but hidden once more.

I can feel the boy's presence.

I came back after drawing some more, to preserve my sanity, following the map, but the room wasn't–– isn't––there.

I sigh in disappointment, and enter Marluxia's room.

I'll find that room again.

After all, I have a map. It may yet work again.

I lay down on the Assassin's bed, whitish-grey, and breathe in deeply.

I choke.

Breathing's a conscious effort, a choice. I haven't quite mastered it completely.

I'm close, though. Very close. I have time, too, so I'm not worried in the least.

I smile, though. The first one in weeks. The first _real _one in months.

His bed still smells like him.

_For a moment, I wonder if time has just stopped here, and I'm only repeating the same day over and over again. Nothing changes, only me. The bodies don't decompose, don't rot. I can't remember whether the body on the ninth floor is the real boy's, or the copy's. I still draw everyday, enough pictures to plaster onto the walls and floor of my room many times over. _

_Time can't have stopped. _

_This is Castle Oblivion._

_The Castle._

_My Castle._

_To lose is to gain. _

_To gain is to lose. _

_Even with the Nobodies dead. _

I push the thoughts from my mind as I inhale the pale scent of cherry blossoms, hawthorns, earth, and roses. I smell Darkness, too, but my nose is not yet so trained to detect the dark matter.

I fall asleep on his bed. It's been so long.

-x-

I wake up on Christmas day, having slept through the night. What surprises me is that no voices greet me in the morning.

I think the boy chased them off. I want to meet him again. I think I like him.

I sigh and smile at the faint smell of roses, still there on his bed. Flowery, flowery, flowery.

I giggle, but then stop. It feels so... _foreign._ But then again, today is Christmas. Today, I'm allowed to be different. My routine will have its first change in months.

I sit up, slide off his bed, and make my way to the first floor, via a Corridor. I don't want to meet the corpses. Not yet. But I almost skipped through the Darkness as I felt excited for what I'd see by the steps to the door.

I exit the Corridor, and close it with a wave of my hand. My face lights up a bit as my eyes take in the sight before me.

The white Christmas tree (the paint was supposed to resemble snow, but now the branches look like tiny bones bunched together) standing in the front hall is decorated with lights, strings of ribbon, and coloured glass; I don't care how macabre the branches look, it's beautiful.

The last Christmas we spent here, when Marluxia was warm, he enchanted the Castle, my Castle, to set up the tree on its own every year, for however long it took to achieve his goals.

_Sora._

His goals will never be fulfilled. The tree will continue to exist every Christmas.

I stare at it for a long time, before getting up and returning to my room. I have to draw. My fingers... the knuckles feel uncomfortable, and my head begins to hurt.

I dash upstairs, ignoring the bodies I'm running by.

I need to draw.

-x-

The clock strikes four, but I see no chime. I see no hands moving on any sort of disc, ticking, ticking, ticking. Tick, tock. There is no clock.

At least none that I can see.

I spend tea-time in silence with Marluxia, talking to him, and showing his blank, blue eyes my drawings. He doesn't judge. He never judges.

I like that about him.

He doesn't insult me, either. Doesn't taunt, doesn't jeer at. No teasing, no cruel words that cut closer than his scythe to my... heart? Have I a heart? I don't want to cut myself open to see. I'll ruin my dress. But Marluxia still doesn't say anything. Death must have made him nicer.

I decide to make a Christmas dinner for myself, as a nice change of pace. I leave my drawings by his side, ordering him as his Queen to guard them with and in his death, before skipping away and opening portals.

I've never cooked before, but it's never too late to try (_never too late to try... I want to tell a dying person that, someday. Tell them it's not too late as they give me their last words... It'd be ironic_). I take one of the books in Larxene's room, and follow the instructions for the first thing I see, transporting myself down to the kitchens. (_They're so near the basements; it's a little scary. But I smell no rot... not yet. No one walks out of the door..._)

_**Meat Pie** –– **Ingredients:** Meat, seasoning, pie crust... _

I can't read measurements, but I can read ratios; I try my best and add what seems to be the right amount, but I freeze when I read _meat_. I have no meat.

There's no place I can get meat.

I can't draw it, can't magick it to reality.

_Unless... _I tilt my head, considering the thought. It's unforgivable; but I don't need the dead's forgiveness. They're gone anyway, only husks and empty shells of what they've been.

I leave the kitchen.

-x-

"_Riku, Riku, Replica._"

I still can't decide which one he is. They're identical, and that's the point. What scares me is that there's only one of him here, meaning the other must have escaped... Maybe. I think it's cruel of him, leaving me alone, all alone, so, so lonely... all by myself in my white, empty Castle. It's mine. My own. I'm Queen.

And as Queen, my subjects obey my every word, as long as it's "Guard this," "Stay quiet," "Cuddle with me," or something I can force them to do. Mindless dolls.

Almost like me.

A doll like Repliku.

_Lean-y, meanie, mine-y, more. Catch a Heartless by its toe. If it kills you, let it go. Magic, tinsel, mistletoe._

Finally, I decide it's the Replica that lies dead on the floor. I leave the level and return to Larxene, and I borrow one of her knives. I go back to Repliku and give him a kiss on his forehead.

"I'm sorry..."

But if he's a Replica, then he's not the real thing, and it's alright. And if he's dead, what use does he have for an arm?

I hack it off. No blood spurts out. It's a bit creepy.

-x-

Back in the kitchens, I finish cooking the pie. I don't have a clear memory of it... I just know I gently skinned the arm _(I hung up the flesh to dry_), took out the bone (_I wonder if I can make it into a drawing tool..._), put the ingredients together, placed it in the oven... and a hour later, it was done.

But no matter, no matter: unnerving though the loss of my memory may be, the food is baked and my Christmas dinner is ready. I take it to the dining room.

"_Ittadakimasu._" I clasp my hands briefly as in prayer (_but I don't pray, can't pray. No god would listen to me_) before I fold the napkin across my lap and daintily pick up my fork and knife. The crust of the pie is flaky, and I carve through to the surprisingly well-cooked middle, cutting myself a slice. The pie goes on my clear, white plate, empty like the moon (_only there is no moon, only Kingdom Hearts, and a fake one at that_), and I take a small bite. It's savoury, soft... The meat tastes good.

I thank Riku––no, _Repliku_––for his arm. Muscled and toned though he was, there wasn't that much meat on the bone. Or maybe, it just didn't seem like that. The pie dish _was _a bit large... It was fun to cook, though. The book left in Larxene's room helped me. (_I don't think it's hers. I think she stole it. Maybe from the dead. ...She probably just borrowed it from the Nobodies downstairs._)

(_The basement's probably full of corpses. I've never seen anyone else, and who would want to stay down there for such a long time? There is no escape route I can't see. They're probably dead._)

I take another bite and enjoy the meager "Christmas feast" I have prepared for myself. I've magicked apples from paper and pen to appear on the table, and a glass of potion helps me swallow the meat without feeling sick. Regardless, real or not, the food tastes nice.

I finished my dinner and stared up at the Christmas tree, devoid of any presents underneath.

_Merry Christmas_, I told myself. (_But Christmas isn't about presents, so I don't care about the gifts._)

I wished me, the corpses, and the empty Castle, a very merry, happy Christmas. A hollow Christmas. (_There's no one else here._)

I'm alone this Christmas.

But that's okay, because I've always been alone.

By now, I'm used to it.

* * *

><p><em><strong>AN:** I know some grammar's off. It's intentional. Spelling mistakes are not, however, and if you find them, I'd appreciate knowing.  
>Merry Christmas to all, and to all a nightmare-free night from reading this.<br>Let me know if I unnerved you or even slightly creeped you out, please. I'd love to know! (Anon is fine)_

* * *

><p><strong>Epilogue:<strong>

"_She's hallucinating again. Should we give her another dose?_"

"_No; there's a chance that it'll go so high that we'll send her into a coma._"

"_Look at all her dolls... It's hard to believe such a sweet, silent girl could do such things..._"

"_Sir? I don't understand why she has her own ward. I mean, it could be divided up and shared––_"

"––_She's only half insane. She's a really sweet girl, quiet and she behaves herself. It's just that she's a danger to everyone, in that she doesn't know reality, can't tell what's real and what's a dream. That's __why we keep her here._"

"_Poor child. Her brother visited yesterday. She didn't recognize him._"

"_I heard she tried to take him back to her room._"

"_We didn't let her, but she did still enjoy Christmas, we think..._"

"_Poor girl. It's been a year now?_"

"_Maybe two._"

"_Maybe next year, she'll improve. Maybe next year, she won't be alone for Christmas._"

I groan and curl up tighter, my body a small ball, and I nuzzle against Marluxia. My memory of his warmth helped soothe me back to sleep, dispelling the nightmares.

The newer voices were back.


End file.
